That evening, after dark, Morton and his Brother Lewis strolled into
the woods together. It was not safe for Lewis to walk about in the
day time. The law was on one side and the vengeance of Micajah
Harp's band, perhaps, on the other. But in the twilight he told
Morton something which interested the latter greatly, and which
increased his gratitude to Lewis. That you may understand what this
communication was, I must go back to an event that happened the week
before--to the very last adventure that Lewis Goodwin had in his
character of Pinkey.
Ann Eliza Meacham had been disappointed. She had ridden ten miles to
Mount Tabor Church, one of Morton's principal appointments. No doubt
Ann Eliza persuaded herself--she never had any trouble in persuading
herself--that zeal for religious worship was the motive that impelled
her to ride so far to church. But why, then, did she wish she had
not come, when instead of the fine form and wavy locks of Brother
Goodwin, she found in the pulpit only the located brother who was
supplying his place in his absence at Kike's bedside? Why did she
not go on to the afternoon appointment as she had intended? Certain
it is that when Ann Eliza left that little log church--called Mount
Tabor because it was built in a hollow, perhaps--she felt
unaccountably depressed. She considered it a spiritual struggle, a
veritable hand to hand conflict with Satan. She told the brethren
and sisters that she must return home, she even declined to stay to
dinner. She led the horse up to a log and sprang into the saddle,
riding away toward home as rapidly as the awkward old natural pacer
would carry her. She was vexed that Morton should stay away from his
appointments on this part of his circuit to see anybody die. He
might know that it would be a disappointment to her. She satisfied
herself, however, by picturing to her own imagination the
half-coldness with which she would treat Brother Goodwin when she
should meet him. She inly rehearsed the scene. But with most people
there is a more secret self, kept secret even from themselves. And
in her more secret self, Ann Eliza knew that she would not dare treat
Brother Goodwin coolly. She had a sense of insecurity in her hold
upon him.
Riding thus through the great forests of beech and maple Ann Eliza
had reached Cherry Run, only half a mile from her aunt's house, and
the old horse, scenting the liberty and green grass of the pasture
ahead of him, had quickened his pace after crossing the "run," when
what should she see ahead but a man in wolf-skin cap and long
whiskers. She had heard of Pinkey, the highwayman, and surely this
must be he. Her heart fluttered, she reined her horse, and the
highwayman advanced.
"I haven't anything to give you. What do you want?"
"I don't want anything but to persuade you to do your duty," he said,
seating himself by the side of the trail on a stump.
[Illustration: AN ACCUSING MEMORY.]
"Let me go on," said Miss Meacham, frightened, starting her horse.
"Not yet," said Pinkey, seizing the bridle, "I want to talk to you."
And he sat down again, holding fast to her bridle-rein.
"What is it?" asked Ann Eliza, subdued by a sense of helplessness.
"Do you think, Sister Meacham," he said in a canting tone, "that you
are doing just right? Is not there something in your life that is
wrong? With all your praying, and singing, and shouting, you are a
wicked woman."
Ann Eliza's resentment now took fire. "Who are you, that talk in
this way? You are a robber, and you know it! If you don't repent
you will be lost! Seek religion now. You will soon sin away your
day of grace, and what an awful eternity--"
Miss Meacham had fallen into this hortatory vein, partly because it
was habitual with her, and consequently easier in a moment of
confusion than any other, and partly because it was her forte and she
thought that these earnest and pathetic exhortations were her best
weapons. But when she reached the words "awful eternity," Pinkey
cried out sneeringly:
"Hold up, Ann Eliza! You don't run over me that way. I'm bad
enough, God knows, and I'm afraid I shall find my way to hell some
day. But if I do I expect to give you a civil good morning on my
arrival, or welcome you if you get there after I do. You see I know
all about you, and it's no use for you to glory-hallelujah me."
Ann Eliza did not think of anything appropriate to the occasion, and
so she remained silent.
"I hear you have got young Goodwin on your hooks, now, and that you
mean to marry him against his will. Is that so?"
"No, it isn't. He proposed to me himself."
"O, yes! I suppose he did. You made him!"
"I didn't."
"I suppose not. You never did. Not even in Pennsylvania. How about
young Harlow? Who made him?"
Ann Eliza changed color. "Who are you?" she asked.
"And that fellow with dark hair, what's his name? The one you danced
with down at Stevens's one night."
"What do you bring up all my old sins for?" asked Ann Eliza, weeping.
"You know I have repented of all of them, and now that I am trying to
lead a new life, and now that God has forgiven my sins and let me see
the light of his reconciled countenance----"
"Stop, Ann Eliza," broke out Pinkey. "You sha'n't glory-hallelujah
me in that style, confound you! Maybe God has forgiven you for
driving Harlow to drink himself into tremens and the grave, and for
sending that other fellow to the devil, and for that other thing, you
know. You wouldn't like me to mention it. You've got a very pretty
face, Ann Eliza,--you know you have. But Brother Goodwin don't love
you. You entangled him; you know you did. Has God forgiven you for
that, yet? Don't you think you'd better go to the mourners' bench
next time yourself, instead of talking to the mourners as if you were
an angel? Come, Ann Eliza, look at yourself and see if you can sing
glory-hallelujah. Hey?"
"Let me go," plead the young woman, in terror.
"Not yet, you angelic creature. Now that I come to think of it,
piety suits your style of feature. Ann Eliza, I want to ask you one
question before we part, to meet down below, perhaps. If you are so
pious, why can't you be honest? Why can't you tell Preacher Goodwin
what you left Pennsylvania for? Why the devil don't you let him know
beforehand what sort of a horse he's getting when he invests in you?
Is it pious to cheat a man into marrying you, when you know he
wouldn't do it if he knew the whole truth? Come now, you talk a good
deal about the 'bar of God,' what do you think will become of such a
swindle as you are, at the bar of God?"
"You are a wicked man," cried she, "to bring up the sins that I have
put behind my back. Why should I talk with--with Brother Goodwin or
anybody about them?"
For Ann Eliza always quieted her conscience by reasoning that God's
forgiveness had made the unpleasant facts of her life as though they
were not. It was very unpleasant, when she had put down her memory
entirely upon certain points, to have it march up to her from
without, wearing a wolf-skin cap and false whiskers, and speaking
about the most disagreeable subjects.
"Ann Eliza, I thought maybe you had a conscience, but you don't seem
to have any. You are totally depraved, I believe, if you do love to
sing and shout and pray. Now, when a preacher cannot get a man to be
good by talking at his conscience, he talks damnation to him. But
you think you have managed to get round on the blind side of God, and
I don't suppose you are afraid of hell itself. So, as conscience and
perdition won't touch you, I'll try something else. You are going to
write a note to Preacher Goodwin and let him off. I am going to
carry it."
"I won't write any such a note, if you shoot me!"
"You aren't afraid of gunpowder. You think you'd sail into heaven
straight, by virtue of your experiences. I am not going to shoot
you, but here is a pencil and a piece of paper. You may write to
Goodwin, or I shall. If I write I will put down a truthful history
of all Ann Eliza Meacham's life, and I shall be quite particular to
tell him why you left Pennsylvania and came out here to evangelize
the wilderness, and play the mischief with your heavenly blue eyes.
But, if you write, I'll keep still."
"I'll write, then," she said, in trepidation.
"You'll write now, honey," replied her mysterious tormentor, leading
the horse up to the stump.
Ann Eliza dismounted, sat down and took the pencil. Her ingenious
mind immediately set itself to devising some way by which she might
satisfy the man who was so strangely acquainted with her life, and
yet keep a sort of hold upon the young preacher. But the man stood
behind her and said, as she began, "Now write what I say. I don't
care how you open. Call him any sweet name you please. But you'd
better say 'Dear Sir.'"